“What about Talia?” Layla asked. “Are we—? Is she—?”
Yes. Khan very much wanted the oracle to answer this question. It would settle everything.
The oracle’s smile faded. A tremor went over her body, but she breathed a response. “Why do you ask what you already know to be true?”
Shadow rolled into the room, and the oracle’s eyes darkened, the lids widening in horror at a pressing vision. “Rose is coming,” she choked. “Watch yourself.”
Confused, Layla looked to Zoe. “I don’t know a Rose.”
Zoe shrugged, murmuring. “The visions overlap sometimes and don’t make sense. Did you get what you came for, or what?”
Shadowman was tempted to see into the oracle’s Shadow himself and witness this Rose who frightened her so. Could she be the devil? But Layla was backing out of the room, saying, “Yeah, I think I did.”
Zoe closed the door again. “If Abigail says you’re related to those bastards, then you are. Goody for you.”
“How long does she have?”
Zoe studied the floor. “I don’t know. She’s all I’ve got. As long as I can hold on to her, I guess.”
A similar conviction rose in Layla, painful in its sharpness, so sweet in its fast-rising hope. She looked to the outer door, as if seeking her daughter, Talia. “Yeah, me too.”
And Khan knew, for the moment, all was well. And it would be better still tonight when he could go to her in her dreams. In the meantime, he had work to do.
Someone was cooking, and it smelled like Heaven. Bacon, coffee, fresh bread. Rose wanted to cry, she was so happy. After twelve years of being hungry and deprived, tortured without reason, a home-cooked breakfast was just the thing to start the day, and a new life.
All she had to do was take care of a Ms. Layla Mathews. And Rose would, right after she ate.
The B&B had been a godsend. A sweet Victorian in the middle of downtown Middleton. The inside was meticulous, woodwork gleaming, and the hand-sewn quilts decorating the walls reminded Rose of her mother. Braided rugs kept the cold off the polished floors. The owner, Grace, was a woman after her own heart.
“How’s your hand this morning?” Grace asked when Rose came downstairs and sniffed out the dining room, ready to dig in.
Rose glanced at her bandage handiwork. The proportions were a little off since her hand had lengthened and thickened. Underneath, the yellowish cast to her skin had turned to a bruised, unsightly green.
How provoking of Grace to mention it.
“Just fine,” Rose answered and approached the table. The lace runner had been removed and several dishes were set out. The mix of savory and pastry scents made her dizzy. “This looks delicious.”
Rose tried not to be annoyed by the woman’s thoughts. Right now Grace was thinking, Just ask her. She’s got to be expecting it.
Grace smiled. “Wait till you try the blueberry pancakes. They’ll keep you warm all day. But before we start, how about we settle up? I can run it real fast, and we won’t have money hanging over our heads while we eat.”
The woman had the nerve to congratulate herself. There. That wasn’t so hard.
Rose looked at the steaming plate of cakes. She didn’t have any money. Not even a credit card. She’d been dead twelve years. Besides, Mickey used to pay for everything.
“I really should’ve taken care of it last night, but you came in so late and seemed so tired,” Grace said, then to herself, Don’t let her weasel out of it.
Weasel? Rose’s bad hand itched and ached, the binding suddenly too tight.
She flashed her dimples. “I don’t have my purse with me. When I come down again, I’ll take care of it.”
No. You’ll sneak out.
Grace put a hand to the back of Rose’s chair, keeping it tucked under the table. “It’s just, you didn’t have your purse last night either.”
A red haze swept over Rose’s eyes. She really, really wanted to do something to Grace. Her hand was burning with it, and her ears were pounding with the urge to act. But the gate had warned against further bloodshed, even if it was warranted. Said she could and would be tracked by it.
Inconvenient. The food was getting cold. Her belly was rumbling.
“How about you just run up and get your wallet.”
“How about you put a fork in your eye?” Rose snapped.
No one was more shocked than Rose when Grace did just that. Opaque fluid mixed with blood spurted, then ran down her hostess’s cheek. Grace held the fork’s weight up, hand shaking, and covered her oozing eye with her other hand. Goop leaked between her fingers.
The screams that followed made Rose ball up one of the nice linen napkins and stuff it in Grace’s mouth. Too bad the screams went on in Grace’s head.
Helpme, please, ohgodohgod, pull it out! Ohgod, hospital, helpme helpme . . . !